12 Days Of Christmas (Bulletproof Remix)
by EFAW
Summary: For Christmas, Travis gets shot. H/C, Wesvis. Oneshot.


**Summary: **For Christmas, Travis gets shot. H/C, Wesvis. Oneshot.

**Warnings: **Non-descriptive acts of violence. Blood. Christmas schmoop. Hurt/comfort. Wesvis. Shameless butchering/parody of a classic Christmas song.

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

**The summary came to me first, and I couldn't help myself.**

**OOOO**

**12 Days Of Christmas (Bulletproof Remix)**

_This is Christmas, Christmas my dear; The time of year to be with the one that you love._

_- Charles Brown, "Please Come Home For Christmas"_

_**On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me**_

_**Twelve men in tac gear**_

"A raid right before Christmas." Travis grins and tightens the straps on his vest. "It's a dream come true."

"Your Christmas dream was to bust down a drug dealer?" Wes asks sarcastically, re-checking Travis's straps. "Really?"

Travis bats his hands away, tugging on Wes's best. "You're just jealous because your heart is cold and empty inside and you have no dreams, Mr. Grinch."

"I have plenty of dreams," Wes retorts, checking his gun. "None of them involve warehouse raids or bulletproof vests."

"Oh yeah?" Travis leers, wagging his eyebrows. "_None_ of them?"

Wes pushes thoughts of Travis in a vest—_only_ a vest—away. "Come on, let's go." He pushes Travis out of the van.

The SWAT team leader scans the group. "Team one, you'll be on the back doors. Team two, you'll be at the front. Make sure no one gets away. Team three, you'll be heading inside with our friends from the LAPD." He makes a gesture. "Get in position, and on my mark."

The men and women disperse to their assigned spots. Travis is humming under his breath. Wes shoots him a glare even as he tries to figure out what the song is.

"Three…" The team leader says over the earpiece. "Two…one…go!"

The next few minutes are a wash of shouting and smoke and gunfire.

Wes loses sight of Travis in the commotion, but he figures it's fine. Travis has two members of the SWAT team watching after him. Then he's too busy ducking behind a crate to avoid a hole in the head to think about it much.

It isn't until the gunfire has stopped and the drug dealers are on the ground that Wes starts to worry. Travis isn't there gloating or looking smug, and Wes gets a bad feeling—

He's running before an agent says, "Officer down!"

"Travis," Wes cries, skidding beside his partner. Blood soaks the knees of his pants, _Travis's _blood. "Travis, don't you dare do this to me!"

His partner's eyes flutter. "Wes," Travis groans, then, "_Hurts_."

"I know, I know." Wes doesn't know where to put his hands. Logic says 'on the wound' but there's blood _everywhere_ and he's not quite sure where the wound _is_. "I'm right here." Travis's eyes start to slide shut. Wes desperately says, "This still what Christmas dreams are made of?"

Travis looks at him again, blue eyes bleary but focused enough. "Get…ting shot, th-that's new."

It's a twisted, hysterical sound that falls out of Wes's mouth. "Yeah, I imagine it is." He swallows, grabs Travis's hand. "Just stay with me, Travis. You've got to stay with me."

The paramedics arrive, gently pulling him away. Wes sees Travis's eyes close once more as he's loaded on the gurney,

"Don't you dare die, Travis!"

It isn't until he's driving to the hospital that he realizes what Travis was humming at the start of the raid.

"_You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch…_"

Wes has to pull to the side of the road and take a few minutes to sit and compose himself before he can continue on.

_**Eleven hours waiting**_

This is what he knows:

Travis was with his cohort of SWAT. When the gunfire started, he ducked behind a shelving unit and returned fire. An unlucky bullet hit the shelf behind him, ricocheted through his shoulder, glanced off his collarbone and lodged somewhere in his chest.

Wes learns this within the first two hours, a combination of details parsed together from one of the SWAT members present and the very nice admitting nurse.

By the fifth hour, even the very nice admitting nurse is starting to get annoyed.

"Detective Mitchell, your partner is still in surgery. I can't tell you anything more than I already have."

"But there's got to be _something_." Wes leans against the counter and gives his best impression of Travis's imploring face. Judging by her expression, it's probably a little too wild-eyed to do much good. "Can't you go back and see how he's doing?"

"Detective," the nurse says through her teeth, "I _promise_, as soon as anything changes, you'll be the first to know. But for now, you have to just go sit down and _wait_."

Her smile is looking a little frayed around the edges, like she's about to snap if he pushes any more. It's the only reason he goes and sits.

The chairs are nearly empty, just three other people staring into space with varying degrees of shock on their faces. There's a TV in the corner that no one is watching. Wes stares at it and doesn't register a thing.

It's a long night.

_**Ten horrid phone calls**_

There are about eight million contacts on Travis's phone. There's a whole section under 'M' that's pretty clear; fourteen 'Mom's, three 'Mama's, and one 'Madre'. Each one has a name after, if only so Travis can remember which of his many mothers are calling. Most of the rest are female names.

Wes stares at that section for a long time before quietly setting the phone down. They'll get the news soon enough, and someone will call.

Money is the first one. He doesn't call Travis's phone; he calls Wes's. Wes clutches the device, takes a breath, and answers.

"T-Bone's been shot?" Money asks. No beating around the bush.

"Yes," Wes says wearily.

There's a sharp exhalation on the other end of the line. "What happened? Where were you?"

_I've been asking that myself._

"I don't know."

Something in his voice makes Money pause. Wes can almost hear the big man switching gears, modulating himself.

"You take care of T-Bone, a'ight?" The Samoan says. "You take good care of my brother."

Wes nods, slumping back in the uncomfortable chairs. "I will."

"Good."

The next few phone calls are almost the exact same conversation. After a while, Wes just stops answering the phone. He lets it vibrate on his lap and the guilt drowns him.

_**Nine nosy questions**_

"Hello, Wes."

Wes snorts and presses the button on the coffee machine a bit harder than he intends. "I should have known they'd call you."

Dr. Ryan smile genially when he turns. "The captain thought you could use someone to talk to. How are you doing?"

The Styrofoam bends a little in his hands. He stalks down the hall and pretends like it doesn't bother him that she's following him.

"Do you know how many people have asked me that already?"

"Everyone, I presume," she guesses, settling into the chair next to him.

"_Everyone_," Wes takes a vicious swig of his coffee. It scalds on the way down. He hardly notices. "It's stupid. _I'm_ fine. _Travis_ is the one who got shot."

Dr. Ryan studies him. Wes doesn't look to see, but he can feel her eyes on the side of his head, boring into him.

"I stood there for twenty minutes," she finally says. "In that time, you got three cups of coffee and you didn't notice me at all."

Wes freezes with his coffee halfway to his lips. "I did not," he protests feebly, lowering the cup to his lap without taking a sip.

"You did. And if you didn't notice it just now, I have no doubt you've drunk a lot more. I know you haven't slept all night, and I know you've probably spent most of it fretting." She leans forward. "But do you want to hear the number one reason I know, for a fact, that you're not 'fine'?"

"Oh, _do_ tell," Wes snaps, and takes a swallow and acts like he doesn't know she's counting.

Her smile is sympathetic and gentle, like a warm hug. "Wes, your partner got shot."

He laughs. It's a little hysterical and a little wild and there's no mirth in it at all.

"Wow. I honestly didn't see that coming."

"Wes," Dr. Ryan says gently, "I am worried about Travis. But I can be worried about you too."

Wes's throat tightens. He stares at the dark liquid in his cup and avoids her see-all stare. "He's in there and he could…" Wes doesn't say it. If he says it, it will come true. "There's so much I haven't…we haven't fixed yet."

Dr. Ryan sighs. If she notices his slip, she doesn't mention it. "I'm sure you've heard this, but you shouldn't put things off. Not the important things. We're never guaranteed tomorrow."

She just puts her hand on his shoulder. It's nothing major, but it's enough to almost send him over the edge.

Very carefully, Wes puts his coffee down between his feet.

Then he puts his head in his hands and tries very hard not to cry.

_**Eight nurses angry**_

Wes almost can't decide if seeing Travis is better or worse than waiting and not knowing. On the one hand, the uncertainty was almost enough to break him.

On the other hand, he wouldn't have to see Travis like _this_, strapped to the bed with tubes and wires. His mocha skin is almost ashen and he's still, too still, Travis is always moving and fidgeting and it drives Wes _crazy_—

"When will he wake up?" he asks the nurse for the thousandth time.

The nurse sighs a long-suffering sound. "Mr. Mitchell—"

"Detective," Wes corrects, like it will change her answer.

"_Detective_ Mitchell, as I've said, there's no way to tell. Everyone is different. But he _will_ wake."

He bites back the words on his lips. Travis _will_ wake up but that doesn't tell Wes _when_, that doesn't tell him how long he has to carry this weight on his chest, like he can't possibly breathe fully until Travis opens his eyes and smiles at him.

He makes a nuisance of himself, hovering over the nurse and questioning everything she's doing as she changes the bandages. It makes him sick to see the wounds—marks of his failure.

_You weren't there_, the gashes screams, and Wes swallows and goes even harder at the nurse.

She finally snaps. "Detective! I know you're worried, but we _do_ know how to do our jobs. You need to back off and let us do it!"

Wes flinches from the assault and doesn't say anything else until she leaves.

There's a weak cough behind him. "Making friends, I see." It's hoarse and weak, but it's—

He turns. Travis blinks blue eyes and smiles wearily at him.

The weight on Wes's chest disappears, and tears well up in his eyes.

"So how many nurses have you pissed off?" Travis wheezes out. "Don't want you alienating them all before I get some TLC from the sexy ones."

Wes blinks hard and stumbles to the bed. "Travis…" He chokes out, and his voice breaks. He gropes for Travis's hand. Just needing to touch, to feel, to prove to himself that it's really true.

Travis just grins that confident grin and says, "Present." He squeezes Wes's hand.

Wes puts his head down and lets everything flow out.

"Whoa, wait, hey—_Wes_—"

_**Seven minutes crying**_

"You feeling better, man?"

Wes isn't sure what he's more embarrassed by; having an emotional breakdown like that or having it happen in front of Travis.

He's debating smothering himself in the bedding and ending his humiliation now when Travis's hand lands on his head. Wes freezes, but he doesn't pull away. Travis's hand is warm and gentle and _alive_, and Wes has wanted—

He's wanted things he shouldn't and he almost lost it all, so he'll take what he can get.

Travis picks up the moment and tosses it into a thousand pieces on the ground when he says, "I guess the Grinch's heart just grew three sizes."

Wes's head snaps up, and he glowers at his partner. Travis's hand falls from his head with the motion—he tries not to regret it too much.

"Shut up," he mutters, but there's no heat.

Travis grins. It's a little strained around the edges, but it's still so relieving to see, that familiar, good-cheer smile. "No, no, I feel special. I was starting to think that you crying was only a myth. Like unicorns and the kraken."

"I'm not a unicorn."

"No, man, you are definitely more of a kraken."

"If you weren't injured right now I'd hit you."

Another flash of that sunny grin. "I know. It's why I said it now and not before."

Wes scowls. "That's a lie. You would totally say it in any other setting."

Travis shrugs—which immediately makes him wince and groan. Wes is instantly on his feet, hovering and he can't quite keep the panick out of his voice.

"Are you alright? Are you in pain? Do I need to call the nurse?"

"Babe, I'm fine." Travis groans again, face pinched and pale. "Just…can't shrug for a while. Where's the button for the morphine?"

Wes sinks into his chair again, feeling shaky and kind of sick. "Okay. Okay. You're fine." He scrubs his hands over his face, getting rid of the traces of tears on his cheeks. Travis is fine, Wes is fine, everyone is just _fine_.

When he drops his hands Travis is staring at him in sort of baffled amusement.

"What?"

"You really were worried."

Wes shifts. "You got shot. I'm allowed to be worried."

Travis is still staring at him like he actually saw that aforementioned unicorn. "Dude, you _cried_."

"And you almost _died_. Tears are acceptable in this situation." Wes leans back, crosses his arms with a scowl.

Travis blinks and his face shifts. "Wes, I'm not making fun of you." Wes glares at him. "Seriously, I'm not. I'm…flattered, I guess? You _cried_ for _me_."

More glaring. "Why did I want you back again?"

Travis nudges him with his knee. "You know you can't live without me."

Those words hit a little too close to home. The thought of losing his partner, of Travis not being there anymore, makes him hurt, a sharp stinging pain in his chest.

He deflects and doesn't think about it. "I'm already regretting wasting my tears on you."

Travis laughs, and it's the most beautiful sound in the world.

_**Six cups of Jell-O**_

As with most things, they bicker, to the point that the staff occasionally poke their heads in to watch the show. Travis charms the nurses into extra pudding cups. Wes annoys the nurses and badgers the doctors and hovers a lot. Wes brings paperwork for Travis to do while he's recuperating; Travis groans dramatically and says he's going to put Wes on the 'No Visitors' log.

But he doesn't, and Wes comes every day without fail.

And then the doctors say Travis is well enough to go home.

"The lunch cart guy was the only one I couldn't get to give me pudding cups," Travis says, awkwardly spooning Jell-O with one arm in a sling.

"Immune to your charms?" Wes asks without looking up from the magazine in his lap.

"Pretty much." Travis manages to get the Jell-O into his mouth without dropping any—a feat he accomplished after five days. "I dun' thin' he swung tha' way," he adds around a mouthful of gelatin.

Wes's heart stutters. He very calmly turns the page. "Well, there _are_ people out there who won't be fooled by big blue eyes and a nice smile."

"I know two. You and the lunch cart guy."

Wes doesn't mention how difficult it is for him to say no whenever Travis flashes that smooth smile his way. How all he wants to do is say yes to see the way Travis's entire face lights up, or the way his stomach flutters when Travis turns his smoldering charm on, whether it's aimed at Wes or not.

No, he definitely doesn't mention it.

"Just think, Wes!" Travis stares mournfully at the plastic cup in his on the tray. "This could be my _very last _Jell-O cup."

"You realize they actually _sell_ Jell-O cups in the store, right?" Wes deadpans, flipping another page. "Some of them even have fruit in them."

"Yeah, but they won't taste like healing and antiseptic." The other man holds up the Jell-O cup and sighs. "So long, fair Jell-O cup. You, I will miss most of all."

"I thought you wanted the pudding more."

"Shh!" Travis wraps a hand protectively around the plastic cup. "Don't tell! Right in front of it, too!"

Wes stares at him. "I think the drugs are making you delirious. Maybe you should stay a few more days…"

Travis leers. "That'll just give me more time to work on the lunch cart guy. Bet I'll have pudding by the end of the week."

Wes rolls his eyes. Despite his talk, Wes knows Travis is glad he's being released, even if it is into Wes's care.

Wes, for one, can't wait to get them both out of this building that smells like disinfectant and death. Maybe if he's away from here, he can finally rest. Maybe he'll be able to close his eyes without seeing blood, and he can stop thinking about how close he came to losing it all.

_**Five 'I hate yous'**_

Travis chats up the nurse the entire wheelchair ride down. Wes follows in their wake, radiating disapproval the entire time. Sure, Travis wouldn't be _Travis _if he wasn't flirting, but seriously. The man got _shot_ a week ago.

"I'll go get the car," he mutters when they reach the ground floor. He doesn't think either of them notice.

He has to a take a moment in the car. For the first time in days he's alone, seriously alone, and without Travis watching him, he can't help but shake. He'll be fine in a second, he'll pull himself together, but he just needs a moment to decompress. Let it all sink in.

Travis is okay. Travis is _alive_, and he's leaving the hospital and everything is _fine_.

Wes takes a deep breath and wills himself to stop shaking. It mostly works.

The nurse is staring at Travis, totally besotted, when Wes pulls up. Wes adds another line to the List Of Older Women Who Want To Mother Travis and climbs out of the car. It's not easy, but they finally manage to get him in the passenger seat, and Travis waves jauntily at the nurse as they pull away.

As soon as they're out of the parking lot, Travis reaches for the radio. Wes smacks his hand away.

"Come on, Wes, I was _shot!_ I should get to pick the station!"

"My car, my rules," Wes hands tighten on the steering wheel and he wonders when his chest will stop constricting every time Travis says that.

Travis leans back with a huff. "I hate you."

"Suck it up, 'cause you're stuck with me."

A groan. "It's gonna be a _long _two weeks."

_**Four awkward 'Thanks'**_

By the time they get off the elevator, Travis is panting and leaning heavily against Wes's side. Wes shoulders the weight without complaint. It's the least of his burdens to bear.

"Sorry," Travis gasps as they enter his apartment. "Don't mean to…be a pain."

"Am I complaining?" Wes asks, because he's _not_ and he doesn't understand why Travis would be apologizing.

"Guess not." Travis groans, becoming less and less help with every step.

"Sorry," Travis says again as they pass through his bedroom door. His eyes roll upward and this time Wes can see why he's apologizing; there's a sprig of mistletoe taped to the doorframe.

"What's that for?" Wes questions, helping lower Travis into bed. Travis goes without complaint. He's trembling, and Wes would be worried except he's been shot before so he knows how much it can drain.

"I had a…hot date…Christmas…night," Travis wheezes, letting Wes tuck him in. "Was gonna…be sexy…foreplay. Now…just have you."

He attempts to leer at Wes. It would be a lot more efficient if Travis's face wasn't so pinched with pain, but it still makes Wes's stomach flip-flop.

"I'm not kissing you," he grumbles, even though he dearly wants to. Travis huffs a laugh and collapses against his pillow.

Wes lingers for a minute. Watching. Just watching. Travis's breathing is harsh and he's got sweat beading up on his forehead, but…he's alive. Nothing else matters.

"I'll go get your pain pills," he says around a lump in his throat.

"Hey Wes?" Travis calls weakly. Wes stops in the doorway, glances back.

Travis smiles, weary and a little shy. "Thanks, man. For everything."

For no discernable reason, Wes feels his face flush. "Right," he coughs, quickly turning. "I'll just…get that, then."

He doesn't go back until he's sure his blush is gone.

_**Three heartfelt hugs**_

He knows it's a dream the way you sometimes do. He's back in the warehouse. Everything is a blur of motion and sound, racing around him, but there's one fixed point in the noise; a prone form on the ground lying in a puddle of red.

He knows it's a dream, but that doesn't make it any more forgiving. This time there's no happy ending. This time Travis doesn't open his eyes and say it hurts.

This time, Travis stares at the ceiling, blue eyes blank and empty, that vital spark gone, and Wes is too late to save him, too late to tell him, too late for _everything_—

He jerks awake, shaky and sick, one hand pressed against his mouth to keep from crying out. He was supposed to be done with the dreams now. It wasn't _his_ trauma—he was supposed to be _fine_ once Travis got out of the hospital.

He doesn't _feel_ fine.

Wes takes a few breaths, runs his hands over his face. If the past week is anything to go by, he's not going to get back to sleep—and there's only one thing that will get him to calm down with any degree of certainty. He gets up.

It's a lot creepier to stand in the door of Travis's bedroom and watch him sleep than to do the same in his hospital room. Wes rationalizes the action by pointing out that Travis doesn't know _because_ he's sleeping—which, on second thought, doesn't make it any less creepy.

"This is so screwed up," he chuckles wearily to himself.

There's a soft sound from the bed. Wes freezes, formulating explanations in his head. There is a _perfectly_ good reason he's lurking in the doorway in the middle of the night. Really.

The noise comes again, accompanied by subdued movement. It almost sounds like…a whimper?

Wes is moving before he realizes, kneeling on the bed and leaning over his partner.

"Travis!" Wes puts his hand on Travis's good shoulder, carefully presses the other low on Travis's stomach. "Travis, calm down, you'll rip out your stitches."

The muffled thrashing slows, then stops. Travis's eyes pop open, bleary and confused and _scared_, so scared. The ocean orbs swivel back and forth a few times, finally settling on Wes's face.

"Wes?"

Travis's voice is tremulous. It makes Wes's heart break. "Yeah, Trav, I'm here." He leans back, gently helps guide Travis into a sitting position.

The sudden hug is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Any other time, Wes would push Travis away if only to keep from revealing anything incriminating about himself, but they're both still upset from their dreams and Travis obviously wants comfort, so this time Wes carefully wraps his arms around his partner and hugs back.

"I died," Travis whispers brokenly. Wes's heart stops for a second—surely the doctors would have _told_ him—before he realizes Travis is talking about his dream.

"I died, and I never—" Travis lets out a breath, pulling back to look Wes right in the eyes. "I don't want to go regretting anything."

"I don't want you to go at all," Wes says, because his own dream is too close to the surface and he doesn't like Travis talking like this.

Travis chuckles, and it's a bit more solid than any other sound he's made so far. "Trust me, it's not at the top of my list either."

"Good."

And that would be that, except Travis seems as reluctant to release him as he is to go.

"Do you…" Wes swallows, dropping his eyes. "Do you want me to stay?"

"Would you?" The carefully guarded hope in Travis's voice makes Wes's heart flutter. He knows it doesn't mean anything, that Travis just wants company after a nightmare, but… "I would appreciate it."

Wes would appreciate it too. If he sleeps in here, actually next to Travis, maybe the dreams won't come back. Maybe he can get his first decent night's sleep since the shooting.

He doesn't say that.

"Let me get my pillow."

_**Two sprigs of mistletoe**_

Travis gets quite a few visitors, because Travis is popular like that. Randi and Hudson stop by to say hi. The captain is on vacation, but he calls with well-wishes. Most of the department stops by or calls, and even Jonelle sends a card. The therapy group sends this elaborate fruit explosion Wes isn't quite sure what to do with, and Dr. Ryan calls and asks a lot of questions that in retrospect were aimed more at how he was doing than Travis.

Kendall comes in with a small box and a grin. She disappears into the bedroom for twenty minutes with the door shut, and when she comes out she gives Wes a big wink.

"What was that about?" Wes leans against the doorframe, nursing his coffee and watching the man in the bed.

Travis turns the box over in his hands, looking thoughtful. "She told me to go for something I've been holding back on for a while. As she pointed out, I almost died, so what have I got to lose?"

Sounds a lot like 'no regrets'. Wes takes a sip of his coffee.

"This have anything to do with your nightmare the other night?"

Travis pulls a face. "I wish you wouldn't call it a nightmare. Makes me feel like I'm five. But yes, it does."

"Okay." Another sip of coffee. Wes feels like he should be mainlining the stuff now, he's been drinking so much. "What do you want?" Wes has been willing to do what he needs to make Travis comfortable and happy now—maybe a little too amenable, it'll be hard to go back to the way it was.

That's a problem for another day. Now…

Travis bites his lip, frowning at the box in his hands. "Maybe I shouldn't…"

"Travis, come on. No regrets, right? What do you want?"

His partner takes a breath, looks up and pins Wes to the spot by the intensity in his eyes. "You."

For a second, Wes thinks Travis is joking, but there's no sign of teasing in on Travis's face.

Wes's mind stutters to a halt. "You don't want me," Wes protests weakly once he realizes how _absolutely _serious Travis is right now.

"I do," Travis counters, struggling to sit up. "I have for a long time. I just didn't think I have a chance. But after all this…l" Travis haves a hand, encompassing not only his gunshot wound but Wes taking care of him in the aftermath too. "Dude, I'm getting serious vibes. And I thought, 'Here's my chance'."

Wes continues to stare at him as he tries to figure out if this is a dream or not.

Travis shifts, dropping his eyes to his lap. "Look," he says, and his voice wavers. "If I'm wrong, just tell me. We'll pretend it never happened and blame it on the painkillers."

He sounds so uncertain, so different from his usual confidence, and it makes Wes's chest ache. But at the same time, his heart is leaping, because this is all he's wanted for the longest time and now it's _finally happening_.

He wouldn't be Wesley Mitchell if he just jumped into things, though, so he puts on his best composed face and says, "I won't be a—a substitute, or a stand-in."

The dark head pops back up, incredulity and hope swimming in ocean blue eyes. "It wouldn't be like that, man. Not with you."

"You had a date for Christmas."

"Yeah." Travis looks down, rubs the back of his neck with his good arm. "But then I got shot, and Dr. Ryan talked to me, and I realized that…" He sighs. "Look. It's _you_. You're different, you always have been. You're the one I stay with. You're…"

He makes a grasping motion with his hand, unable to find the word, but Wes understands.

He knows exactly what Travis means.

"Oh. Well." Wes licks his lips. "Well then. In that case…you're not _wrong_, exactly."

Travis lights up like the Christmas tree in the living room. "Yeah?"

Wes swallows, takes a careful sip from his coffee to hide the trembling in his hands because his heart feels full to _bursting_ with hope right now. "Yeah."

"Well then." Travis looks down at the tiny wrapped box in his hands. "I guess I can make use of Kendall's gift, then." Before Wes can ask, Travis pops the lid and pulls out…

A sprig of mistletoe.

He holds it above his head with his good arm and gives Wes a seductive leer. "Hey Wes, look. Mistletoe."

Wes can't quite help the way his lips quirk. He gazes upward, eyeing the mistletoe he never bothered to take down. "I think we're supposed to be standing beneath the _same_ mistletoe for it to count."

"Oh, come on, I was shot." Travis lets his hand fall back to the bed. "Besides, you owe me one from when you carried me in here. So get over here and kiss me already, dammit."

"Well, when you put it like _that_…"

Wes moves to the bed and sets his coffee on the side table. "I suppose I _do_ owe you one," he murmurs, leaning down.

Travis rises up to meet him with a grin, and the kiss is just…perfect.

They do it again. Several more times. They don't even need the mistletoe.

_**And a partner who is in love with me**_

"So," Travis says after they've stopped kissing (it takes a while). He settles against Wes's chest with a happy sigh. "I guess Christmas wishes _do_ come true."

"I thought your Christmas wish was for a raid," Wes says, shifting a bit so they're both reclining comfortably.

"One of many, babe," Travis chirps, tugging one of Wes's arms across his belly. He tries to pull Wes's other arm around, but it makes him wince.

"Stop that, you'll pull out your stitches," Wes scolds, wrapping his other arm around Travis, being mindful of his partner's wounds.

"But if I do, you'll be there to kiss it better, right?" Travis tilts his head to grin up at him.

Wes reaches up and whacks him lightly on the side of the head. "If you're stupid enough to pull your stitches out you can just suffer."

"Oh, babe, where is the love?"

"Love has nothing to do with tolerating your stupidity."

Travis just grins at him again. "It has _everything_ to do with tolerating my stupidity, just like I tolerate all the really goddamned annoying things you do that irritate me. See? _Love_."

Wes marvels a little at the way the word falls so easily from Travis's mouth when he can't even stay in a relationship for a month. Speaking of…

No. Not right now. Not when they're like this, with Travis injured and Wes too vulnerable because of it. They can have that talk when Travis is better.

Wes sighs and buries his nose in Travis's hair. "You're an idiot," he grumbles, and there's a lot more affection in the words than he intended.

Travis chuckles. "But I'm _your_ idiot. And you're my anal-retentive asshole. So it all works."

"That was lovely, Travis, thank you for the complete insult."

"It's true and you know it."

"You sure do know how to sweet-talk a guy."

"That's the painkillers. I'm usually much more suave."

"You now, you can only ride that boat so long."

"And I'll keep going until it sinks, just you watch."

"Oh boy, something to look forward to."

Travis grins, peering up at him. "See? Tolerating my stupidity. I think the Grinch's heart grew like _six _sizes."

"You dolt."

"_Your _dolt." Travis sighs happily, snuggling up against Wes's chest again "I gotta say, aside from getting shot, this is the best Christmas I've had in a while."

"What about your date?" Wes can't help but ask.

Travis shrugs his good shoulder. "Naw, this still wins. 'Cuz it's you, you know."

"That's awfully sappy."

"I continue to be willing to blame it _all_ on the painkillers."

"Everything?"

"Well." Travis slants a sideways glance at him, lips quirked. "Not _everything_. Come here." He reaches up, tugs at Wes's head with his good arm.

Wes obliges, letting himself be drawn into a kiss.

He has to admit, this isn't quite how he imagined spending his holiday, but this is definitely the best present he could have gotten.

Christmas dreams indeed.

**OOOO**

**My headcanon is that Kendall and Travis become like best buddies and game together and drink beer and chat about boys and stuff. I also am firm in my belief that she's a Wesvis shipper, and is probably the one who pointed out to Travis that he totes digs his partner. Hahaha.**

**I really enjoyed writing this, and I hope you enjoyed it too. Merry Christmas everyone!**

**~Until next time!**


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